Hard To Forget
by Raphaela Crowley
Summary: Two angels appear at the gates of Sodom. You probably remember the story. Smiting and turning people into salt, the worst of humanity, fire and brimstone, Lot and his daughters... Aziraphale finds it hard to forget. But the demon Crawly might just have an idea to help him. No Slash. One-shot. (Fairly mild M rating, mostly thematic with one instance of strong language)


**A/N: Rated "M" for mature thematic elements and one instance of strong language. One-shot, completed. **

_Hard To Forget_

A Good Omens fanfiction

At dusk, two angels stood at the gates of Sodom with wary expressions.

Both shining beings were on the portly side, though one gave the jolly impression of a fellow who enjoyed a good tuck-in at mealtime, whereas the other had the sour, bulbous rounded face of one who never actually ate anything – caught, it was to be assumed, in some perpetual state of holy fasting – yet resembled an as-of-yet-uninvented beach ball regardless.

The one who appeared merrier was Aziraphale; the other, Sandalphon.

"Upscale place, this." Aziraphale forced an awkward smile at Sandalphon, who – in turn – just stared back at him like he was an idiot. "Sodom, I mean." He meant to be uplifting, to break the nervous silence, but he could tell he was failing miserably. "So. This Lot fellow we're meant to fetch. The Almighty didn't happen to give Gabriel his street address by any chance?"

"These sorts of operations go much smoother when you _don't_ speak, Aziraphale," Sandalphon said disdainfully. "Remember, you're only here as my second. Let me do the talking." In a low mutter, he added, "He'll think we're raving lunatics if _you_ introduce us. It's not as if we've got a lot of time to do this."

A little hurt, Aziraphale studied his cuticles. Then – in sync with Sandalphon – he drew in his wings and prepared to enter the city.

* * *

It was getting dark, they were barely within the city walls, and Aziraphale was positive they were lost. Sandalphon kept insisting they were almost there, but he was almost certain by this point his fellow angel was mistaken.

Anywhere else, it mightn't have been too bad, but something untoward was happening seemingly around every corner. Already, Aziraphale had witnessed at least six robberies, which Sandalphon refused to let him intervene in, reminding him these people would all be roasting from a Heavenly fire soon enough, and more than four brutal assaults.

"Really, Sandalphon, we should do _something_," Aziraphale had protested as a screaming man was dragged into an alley with large amounts of blood dripping down from his temple to his chin. "Alert the city authorities, or–"

"Those _were_ the city authorities, Aziraphale." Sandalphon's response had been spoken slowly, as if he were explaining things to a particularly dull-minded child.

There had then come a horrible moaning from the alley; a pained, almost animalistic noise which suggested far more than a mere beating was occurring.

When Aziraphale noticed a familiar landmark and realized they were back at the gates again – that they'd gone round in a circle, a disgusting tour of this outwardly luxurious but inwardly rotten place – he had to swallow back a scream. He wanted out. He wanted to be anywhere else. Heaven. A bed under a tent in the wilderness. A cave. Anywhere. He wanted Sandalphon to comfort him, to reassure him everything was going to be fine but with a bit more warmth in his nasal voice.

"My lords," said a voice with just the sort of warmth Aziraphale was wishing for, "where are you spending the night?"

A man with a kind face and nice, well-made clothing was standing between them. It was he who had spoken.

"Oh, hello." Aziraphale lit up, beaming at the man. "It would seem we're staying nowhere. We've gotten ourselves a bit turned around."

"Accept hospitality under my roof," the man offered. "Have some food and drink" – and Aziraphale brightened all the more at this offer, as he was feeling peckish – "and have your feet washed. Then, in the morning, you can be on your way. My wife is a fine cook – we've got a lovely dish of lamb stew already simmering. And my daughters will just be setting out the unleavened bread to cool about this time."

_Lamb stew and hot bread!_ Aziraphale's mouth watered; he could practically taste it. And he wouldn't mind something being done about his hot, tired feet either. He was sure he'd cracked a toenail on a stone in the dark. And this was the first person he'd seen here he wouldn't feel frightened of going home with.

Sandalphon sniffed self-importantly. "We'll spend the night in the street, not under a stranger's roof, thank you most kindly, human person."

"Oh, now, _really_–" Aziraphale began, exasperation seeping into his pleading tone.

Sandalphon grabbed his arm. "I _said_ we're staying in the street."

"My lords," pressed the man, "it's not safe for you out here – you're strangers in the city and the local men might not take kindly to it."

"There you have it, Sandalphon," Aziraphale blurted. "Not safe. Now either let's go with this fine fellow and have some lamb stew or please ask him where Lot lives! It's cold and dark and I... I don't like this place. It feels spooky."

Sandalphon dug his fingers roughly into Aziraphale's arm and was about to hiss at him to shut up, about to snarl that he was going to be telling Gabriel how badly he'd behaved on this venture the moment they got back to Heaven to report, when the man declared, a look of shock spreading across his face, that _he_ was Lot.

Aziraphale was so relieved he could have hugged Lot with both arms and – if they'd been out – both wings.

* * *

Stomach full of lamb stew, Aziraphale reclined against a soft cushion while the younger of Lot's two daughters – very sweet young women, the both of them, in his opinion – cleaned the dust from his feet with a soft wet rag.

"What's your name again, child?" he asked as the girl rung out the cloth then dipped it back into a bowl of cool water.

"Paltith, my lord," she told him, raising the soaked rag to his heel and cleaning away a layer of grime.

"It's Aziraphale." They were his friends now – they might as well use his name, even if Sandalphon wasn't showing any inclination to share_ his_. "You and your family have been so good to us, Paltith."

"Indeed," agreed Sandalphon, dryly, his smile broad enough to show all this pearly teeth, though he did not seem to be enjoying himself. Aziraphale even suspected he was not actually eating his own portion of lamb stew but miracling it away to make it _look_ like he was.

Lot's wife offered them more wine. It was the strongly fermented fruity sort that gave off a sweet aroma when its jug was opened. Sandalphon shook his head and waved her off before Aziraphale could mention that _he_ could do with another drop or two.

"I'm sorry to bring up something dire after this lovely reception," Sandalphon began, and Aziraphale grimaced and reached out to squeeze Paltith's hand, knowing where this was going, remembering suddenly the reason they'd come here, "but–"

He was cut off by a scream from Lot's older daughter. She was looking out the window; her face had gone ashen, lips and cheeks transformed from rosy to snowy.

"Whatever is it, my darling?" Lot asked, rushing over.

"It's the men of the city," she cried. "All of them in one great mob – they're pressing in around the house with torches and lamps!"

"Oh dear," said Aziraphale. "That doesn't bode well."

"I'll see what they want," Lot told them, his shoulders raised tensely as he walked to the door and stepped onto the stone steps outside.

Paltith and her sister moved to a corner where they huddled under their mother's protective arms, trembling.

While Paltith was being oddly stoic for her age, the older sister was whimpering into her mother's collarbone like a frightened child. Aziraphale wished there was something he could say to reassure her, the poor thing.

"Disgusting," said Sandalphon. "Look at that – boy to old man standing around with nothing better to do."

"Bring out the men, Lot!" screamed a chorus at the front of the mob.

"The _men_," Aziraphale echoed, confused for a moment. "They can't mean..." He turned to Sandalphon. "Not us?"

"Honestly, Aziraphale! Who else?" Sandalphon rolled his eyes. "Did you see any other strangers at the gate today?"

"But we didn't do anything," Aziraphale protested innocently. "We just walked around for a bit and–" He was silenced by a glare from Sandalphon, who was trying to hear the rest of the conversation going on outside.

It appeared, from the mob's jeers, that they had some intention of 'showing the visiting men a good time'. Aziraphale got the idea they weren't talking about offering them more wine and lamb stew. Indeed, the lamb stew he'd already had was beginning to feel like it might come right back up. He'd never been sick before – never eaten to that point of excess, even though he was, for an angel, rather a nervous sort and occasionally guilty of using human food to calm himself – and he was almost as afraid of what Sandalphon would say to Gabriel later if he spewed bile all over the floor of Lot's house as he was of the mob outside.

"Please, friends," Lot was saying, holding out his hands to the screaming crowd, "don't do this – these men are innocent, they've come here only to rest."

"Bring out the men!"

"I have two daughters," Lot began, next.

Aziraphale rushed forward, stumbling into the doorway at his host's side, as he realised what Lot meant and also that Sandalphon wasn't showing any inclination to do a thing about it. "But you _can't_!" The mob would tear the poor young ladies to pieces. "You mustn't."

"My daughters have never known a man – let me bring them out to you, and you can do what is right to them in your eyes."

Aziraphale was stricken dumb with horror, eyes torn from the furious crowd; he was just gawking uncomprehendingly at Lot.

"But to these men, do nothing. They have come under my roof, they are under my protection."

"We don't want your daughters – give us the men."

The smallest twitch on Lot's face betrayed mild relief, and Aziraphale finally understood – it was all a distraction. Lot had ultimately anticipated their refusal, for whatever reason; the offer was a ruse; he had not planned what he'd do if they actually accepted. He was clever – perhaps _too_ clever – as well as kind.

That this man should put himself and family in danger for them... No wonder the Almighty had sent angels to warn him of what was to come, to get him out of here in time. Of course he shouldn't die here with the others, of _course_.

Aziraphale wasn't keen on _anyone_ dying. He'd even mourned Adam and Eve privately, when they finally went, old and weather-beaten and miserable, the flaming sword he'd bequeathed all those years ago at the gate of Eden lost to them by that point as well as to him. Still, he understood the Heavenly policy. It kept order – kept things working aright. If you did wrong, you had to be punished.

Only Lot, poor man, hadn't done anything wrong. Except, perhaps, pick the worst possible city to settle his family in.

"These men come in peace, my neighbours. They are not interested in the attentions you wish to show them."

The mob, though it scarcely seemed possible, got even more worked up at that. "Listen here, gents. How d'you like it? This man came as an alien resident to dwell among us and now he plays a prince of justice." They swarmed closer, those at the bottom of the stone step pressing in on Lot and Aziraphale. "Now, Lot, we're going to do worse to you than to them! What d'you think of that?"

Instinctively, Aziraphale stretched out an arm, meaning to pull Lot to safety behind him. Then he'd...do something...some miracle to stop these horrible men from...from what they meant to do. He wished he still had a flaming sword. It might scare them off and he wouldn't actually have to hurt any of them ahead of schedule. He was hoping the Almighty could handle all the literal smiting. Angels were powerful, but they were primarily messengers, particularly principalities like Aziraphale; it was in the name, the meaning. He only wanted to deliver the message of warning to Lot's family and go away again. Not back to Heaven, he was still assigned to work down here, but some place cosy here on earth, where men weren't...doing this...

That was when the unthinkable occurred. The men got hold, not only of Lot, but also of Aziraphale, dragging him by the arm, hauling him off the step.

This was definitely not good.

Aziraphale yelped, and looked over his shoulder for Sandalphon. He couldn't see him. Or Lot's daughters. He caught only a glimpse of the pale face of Lot's wife as she crept forward to see what would become of her husband. Leached from colour, it looked so oddly white in the low lighting, almost like salt.

Things escalated quickly after that. Someone had shoved Aziraphale's face hard against the nearest wall and, pinning him in place, was being rather too free with their hands.

He tried to speak, to tell them they were making a terrible mistake, only his lip had split upon impact with the wall, and there was a tangy taste filling his mouth that was difficult to speak through.

_Sandalphon, for Heaven's sake, you're not going to_ let _them do this to me, are you? _

Where was Lot?

There were too many men.

From the corner of his eye, Aziraphale even noticed the man he'd seen dragged off by the city authorities earlier. His face was a mess, yet he was grinning with the same sick anticipation as his fellows. How could he participate in this after what he'd been through?

_I_ pitied_ you_, Aziraphale thought, rather broken-hearted over this bad turn. _I wanted to _save_ you._

There were _too many_ men.

They'd probably be disappointed once they discovered Aziraphale didn't have the parts they were looking for, as he was most certainly not making an effort in either direction at the moment, but he didn't think that would make them let him go. Either they'd take what they could get and still stick their own swollen members in whatever orifice they could find on his fleshly body, or else they'd just beat him to kingdom come.

Or both.

The limited view of the world Aziraphale had in his current position swam before him. Little black specks dotted his blurring vision.

Not being mortal, he would naturally discorporate rather than die. But he was still afraid of how much it would hurt. And the paperwork on top of that; the embarrassing questions he'd be asked afterwards, if he had any hopes of getting a replacement body. Gabriel would be glowering at him, brow furrowed in annoyed confusion, as he fumbled through an explanation, no doubt demanding why he hadn't simply rescued himself with a miracle.

Gabriel, who was always sending him sharp letters about using miracles frivolously.

Surely it wasn't frivolous to prevent an unnatural rape and to rescue Lot, though?

Perhaps the reason Sandalphon wasn't doing anything was because he expected Aziraphale to have the common sense to do it himself.

Fine then. He'd give it a second more to catch them off their guard, then he'd stop this. What was happening to his eyes in this moment of panic gave the principality an idea.

The man behind him with the uncomfortably hard member was letting go now, to adjust something or other.

Aziraphale quickly planned his escape. Taking a deep breath, he concentrated on the miracle.

_Blindness. Blindness. Blindness. _

The men were stumbling every which way, bumping into each other, crying out that they couldn't see.

They'd let go of Lot, too, in their panic. Aziraphale whirled around and grabbed him, dragging him back into the house. "Are you all right?"

Apart from a torn garment, he was. They'd gotten farther with their designs on Aziraphale than they'd had time to manage with Lot.

Lot's daughters were amazed. "How did you do that?"

"Well, as it happens," Sandalphon said, speaking now as if_ he'd_ dragged Lot back inside to safety, and singlehandedly at that, "we are angels. Sent by the Almighty to give you a message of commendation and warning."

Lot's wife smacked a hand over her mouth. The daughters were whispering loudly and excitedly between each other, squealing and making little girlish hand gestures; Aziraphale heard Paltith exclaiming that she'd washed his feet – the feet of a real angel – and he'd been so _gracious_ to her.

"The message," Sandalphon continued, "is as follows: God is displeased with the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah. They will be destroyed. You must leave tonight."

"And go _where_?" Lot's wife demanded, the shock gone from her expression, replaced by sullenness.

"The mountains," said Sandalphon, shrugging. "There are caves there. Pick a big one and live in it."

"But," Lot quavered, "we don't know anything about mountains or caves – we've lived here almost the whole time my daughters have been alive. Surely... Zoar? It's nearby. God won't destroy that one? We can go there?"

Aziraphale, not seeing how Lot could be expected to go all the way to the mountains after the ordeal they'd just had, hastily agreed. There were wild animals out there and little in the way of protection. He'd work it out somehow, even though he knew Sandalphon would make sure he was reprimanded for it.

"But...our husbands..." Paltith croaked; her voice was raspy, and her sister was already weeping.

"You're married?" Sandalphon asked. "I thought you lived here, with your father."

"We do," Paltith managed weakly, "but we've been promised. We just haven't... We haven't gone home with them yet."

"Go get their husbands," Aziraphale told Lot gently. "It's all right – the men outside are still blinded. They won't stop you."

The older girl wept harder. "They're _with_ the men outside," she wailed.

Aziraphale grimaced.

Paltith drew a sharp breath. "Couldn't you... I don't know..._unblind_...just the two of them? I'm sure they weren't going to hurt you, really – they're nice men – they only followed the crowd so they wouldn't be mocked later. That must be it."

"Or to protect us," the older daughter offered through a series of hiccups. "That could be it."

Ah. Another reason Lot wasn't scared to offer up his girls. He'd been anticipating their husbands' jealousy if the men tried anything with them.

Aziraphale sighed. This was getting beyond him, but he had to help them as much as he could. If they could be reasoned with, there was no reason the girls' husbands _shouldn't_ go with them to Zoar.

"Go on, they'll be outside and see you now. They won't remember what they were just party to – they'll think they've had a lovely dream about whatever they like best."

"The rest of the mob?"

"Wandered off into the streets by now."

Lot nodded and, giving his daughters a sunny grin-and-bear-it smile that did not reach his eyes, went out the door to speak to his sons-in-law.

Meanwhile, his wife was looking despairingly about the place, muttering about how on earth she was meant to prepare for their journey to Zoar, and couldn't the angels have come _just a little while sooner_ so she'd have more time?

Sandalphon was losing patience with her, and – despite himself – Aziraphale found his reaction in this one instance rather more understandable than not. After all, they were already saving them, and Aziraphale had put his neck on the line to let them go to Zoar so they wouldn't have to dwell in unfamiliar mountains. It wasn't as if they'd have nothing to show for tonight's haste – they'd have their lives!

Still, as he would learn to think some centuries later: in for a penny, in for a pound.

"Perhaps I can assist with the packing," Aziraphale offered magnanimously. "I'm very neat and careful, you know."

Even as he slipped in the odd miracle he was hoping a disapproving Sandalphon would overlook to make her bags stretch, Aziraphale still couldn't manage to fit everything Lot's wife wanted to bring. He had to draw the line at a collection of ornate pots that were purely for decoration and had no practical use; they couldn't be cooked with.

"But I spent a _fortune _on those," she moaned.

"I understand," he replied, thinking of his own little collection of papyrus bundles he kept hidden away in a tent he'd been staying in until this assignment and how sad he'd be to abandon them to destruction. "All the same, it can't be done. I really _must_ protest that you're taking advantage of my generosity at this point."

He thought, after that, she was a bit short with him, and was mildly hurt. He'd only wanted to help – and he was doing more than Sandalphon was. Though, perhaps Sandalphon was right after all. He must have understood the greed in humans more than Aziraphale, with his incorrigible trust, ever could. Here he was, wasting time arguing about the luggage contents when they should have been long gone by now.

Lot returned without any sons-in-law to show for his absence. "They acted like I was _joking_," he said wearily, holding out his hands to his teary daughters. "I'm so sorry."

His wife stared at her crying girls for a moment, then looked expectantly at Aziraphale. "Would _you _speak to them? They'd listen to an angel."

"No." He still felt faint recalling that mob, their brutality and wandering hands; he had no inclination to speak to _any_ of the men that had been involved. "Dreadfully sorry and all that. But_ no_." Not even for Paltith.

"What good are you, then?" snapped Lot's wife.

Aziraphale turned crimson and stationed himself next to Sandalphon.

"Love, they were going to _rape_ him," Lot tried to remind her in a low whisper he didn't realise both angels could hear perfectly well.

She said nothing, just began folding a stack of garments and setting them aside.

* * *

As the dawn ascended, Aziraphale began to feel a panic rising within him. They had to _leave_. The city was going to be destroyed _today_. God would not be late.

Lot's daughters had stopped crying over their husbands, but their mother was still trying to stuff multiple items into already overflowing bags.

"What would you bring _now_?" Sandalphon cried, voicing Aziraphale's distress. "It's getting light – we must be gone from this place."

Finally, Aziraphale grabbed the hands of Lot and Paltith and forcibly began dragging them to the door, hoping Sandalphon would follow with the other two.

He did, though less gently. Lot's wife was fussing that she'd dropped something and Sandalphon really must not yank so hard on her wrist or he'd break it. The older daughter said nothing; she'd begun crying again.

"Don't look back!" Aziraphale shouted as they reached the city gate. "Keep running for your lives. That's it, just keep going. Whatever you do – don't look back!"

The sky above them had turned a brilliant blood-red and the air already smelled of brimstone even before the rain of fire and smoke and hail began in earnest.

"Thank you, blessed angel!" gasped Paltith.

Paltith and Lot were running pretty well on their own; they were showing every sign of obeying, of not turning around, so Aziraphale let go of their hands. He'd make sure of the other two less strong members of their family now. Sandalphon might need some assistance keeping those two moving.

"No need to thank me, child, just _run_!"

That was when the unthinkable happened.

Aziraphale thought he saw, coming out of the city gates they'd left behind them, a familiar figure. Long red hair, smooth snaky movements, keeping ahead of the rising fire, but just barely.

"_Crawly_?" he murmured.

He hadn't seen the demon since before the flood waters filled the earth for forty days and forty nights. He'd been positive the wily serpent had gone to Hell to wait it out, but part of him had been a little afraid he'd drowned, gotten himself discorporated. He knew of a couple of demons, obviously far thicker in the head than clever Crawly, of course, but demons all the same, who'd waited too long to get out.

He wondered what Crawly had thought of the rainbow once the Almighty had actually put it up in the sky. Sure, he'd mocked it when Aziraphale first explained it to him – Crawly thought an optical illusion was a poor exchange for the droves of drowned children – but once he'd _seen_ it, he must have understood. As much as a foul demon could understand such a thing, anyway. It truly had been a thing of unspeakable beauty. He secretly suspected that, back when he was an angel, Crawly had to of been involved in creation on some level; it was the only explanation as to why he was so dashed hard to impress.

Behind the figure he thought was Crawly, another person – less distinguishable in the haze – was trying to get out of Sodom. Man or woman, Aziraphale couldn't tell. They were struck down. He could tell it wasn't Crawly that had done it. Crawly wasn't bothering a fig about what was happening behind him, just sauntering off. And that had been an _angelic_ smiting. He recognised the style. _Sandalphon's. _

"Mother, no! Mother don't!" Lot's older daughter was suddenly in hysterics.

Aziraphale, his concentration broken, whirled around. Yes, right. He was supposed to be helping Lot's wife and older daughter. How stupid of him to stand there, looking back as he'd just told them not to do, thinking about _Crawly_ of all persons.

Lot's wife was gone.

In her place was a pillar of salt.

"You didn't have to _do_ that!" Aziraphale shouted over the noise of the natural disaster behind them.

Sandalphon stared into his eyes coldly. "She looked back."

* * *

Aziraphale heard that Lot and his daughters had ended up relocating to the mountains after all; apparently they hadn't felt as safe in Zoar as they'd expected. He did not intend to visit them, not at first, but he couldn't get out of his head how lonely – how horribly alone – they must be in some cave dwelling with only each other for company.

Lot had shown him kindness, back in Sodom, and those girls were motherless now.

Perhaps that was the true reason Aziraphale went calling on them.

It wasn't his fault, he knew. Lot's wife had been difficult long before she finally disobeyed and looked back against their urgings. Silly woman was bound to do something foolish sooner or later. If Sandalphon hadn't punished her for that, it would have been something else. She'd made herself quite tiresome. But a pillar of salt... And, of course, there was the fact that she might – probably not, but _might_ – have been looking back, unbeknownst to Sandalphon, not for herself, but to see what had Aziraphale so riveted. Perhaps she thought God was going to spare the city after all and Aziraphale had been looking back to check, and all he'd really been doing was gawking at Crawly, lost in thoughts of rainbows and first impressions...

Was it _his_ fault Paltith and her sister had lost their mother?

Gabriel certainly seemed to think so – though he hadn't put together that it was _Crawly_ Aziraphale had been looking back for. Sandalphon had never actually seen the demon there, which sort of made Aziraphale wonder if he'd been mistaken somehow.

The only reason he wasn't in trouble was that, apparently, three out of four wasn't considered too shabby. They'd gotten Lot out, which was the point of their mission.

Sandalphon was getting all the credit, though.

_Good_, Aziraphale thought, as he made his way up the mountain, out of breath;_ he can _have_ it. I don't want credit for a salt-pillar woman and a burned up pair of cities. I just want to forget any of it ever happened. I don't want to remember there ever was a Sodom or Gomorrah, or all those awful people. _

It was comforting to think he was visiting the only three people from that city who weren't perverted.

Near sunset, Aziraphale reached their cave. He would have knocked, but he didn't know what to knock _on_. There was no door and the rocks were jagged.

His eyes adjusted quicker to the dimness than a human's would have. He began clearing his throat, about to make his presence known with a cheery hello, when he was startled by the inexplicable sight of a bare female posterior atop a makeshift bed. The moan that came from under her was decidedly _not_ female.

Aziraphale – quite red – began backing away when he realised what the figures on the bed were doing, what he'd inadvertently walked in on.

But who _was_ it?

He thought the figure was too small for Lot's older daughter, who had a larger frame than her sister, so it must have been Paltith.

Except, Paltith's husband was dead. He'd burned up back in Sodom. There was no other man with them other than...

Aziraphale fled.

The only man living with them was Lot.

Their _father_.

The angel was going to be sick.

* * *

The demon Crawly leaned against the outside of the cave, waiting. He'd seen Aziraphale go in; had, in fact, been following him quite a ways up the mountain. He would have said something hours before and walked beside him, but the angel seemed lost in thought and he didn't want to interrupt.

Now he rather wished he had.

Crawly had worked out what was going to happen with those girls – no doubt anxious about not being able to have offspring – and their father. Humans were messed up like that. It was repulsive, but nothing to do with him. He'd expected he would have a chance to catch up with Aziraphale and give him a head's up _before_ he strode in grinning like an idiot. He must have left it too late. Oops.

Well, no matter. He wanted to ask Aziraphale what that whole deal with the brimstone and flaming sky had been about.

The angel didn't notice him. Crawly suspected he'd had too big a midday meal for the more fleshly aspects of his body's stomach to cope with what he'd just seen.

"Well, honestly, what did you _expect _was going to happen?"

Aziraphale whirled around, gingerly wiping bile from his chin. "Crawly!"

"Hello, Aziraphale."

"So this was _your_ demonic doing, was it?" he demanded. "One of your temptations? You couldn't just leave them alone? Those were my friends."

Crawly recoiled. "No, no. Nothing to do with _me_." He was offended Aziraphale would leap to that assumption. He might tell himself, often enough, he didn't care what any angel thought of him – but secretly he cared a little what _this _one did. "You think I _wanted_ those girls to fuck their father? How does _that _help my side? No, they came up with that on their own – I'd bet the oldest thought of it first."

Aziraphale went paler. "Both of them?"

Crawly shrugged.

"I think I need to sit down." Aziraphale sat on a boulder and buried his face in his hands.

Crawly watched him silently for a minute or two, when he realized the angel's shoulders were shaking.

Awkwardly, he reached out and put a hand on the nearest shoulder-blade. "There, there. Steady on." Crawly was at a loss – this was the first time he'd tried to comfort anybody since he became a demon and he was rather out of practice.

Perhaps if he could come up with some witty, sarcastic remark... Well, no, Aziraphale tended not to pick up on those. He hadn't even realised Crawly was being sarcastic about him not being able to do anything bad because he was an angel, back in Eden. The poor angel had taken him for sincere, which had in retrospect made Crawly feel guilty he _hadn't_ been.

He was surprised by the angel's reaction: he shook off his touch with a shudder.

From any other angel, this wouldn't have been surprising. They would have been disgusted that a fallen angel, a demon, had dared touch them with their soiled, damned, God-forsaken hands. But that wasn't Aziraphale. Whatever had gotten into the poor bastard?

Aziraphale glared daggers at him with moist eyes through splayed fingers. "I'd rather not be touched, if you don't mind."

"Oh." Crawly backed off a short ways. "No problem."

"Not that I don't appreciate the sentiment, Crawly. I know you didn't mean anything untoward by it. It's been a rough few months, that's all."

Ah, nice and polite. _That_ was more like Aziraphale.

"Well, can I ask what the Heaven your lot did to Sodom and Gomorrah?" Crawly blurted, after an uncomfortable pause. "Got myself kicked out of Gomorrah after a harmless bit of temptation, thought I'd get myself a consolation drink in the next best place – Sodom – and next thing you know the sky's gone a funny colour.

"I was going to ask _what_ they were putting in date-plum cocktails these days, but everyone was dead, including the barmaid, and I had to rush out before I was discorporated."

He didn't mention that – up until the early morning catastrophe – he'd been in a good mood, having got the bar all to himself expect for a couple of women who minded their own business. Something had gotten the attention of the city men the night before and they'd gone off to do mob-type things together. Crawly expected they were probably tipping camels or whatever it was drunk humans were into now. The women of Sodom were steadier-handed and better at not spilling his drink, and at remembering he liked it with crushed lemongrass and nutmeg.

"Crawly, _really_! The city-wide destruction was a scheduled event and it wasn't classified," Aziraphale huffed. "If your side can't remember a simple date now and again–"

"Right. Fine, then. Have it your way. But what were _you_ doing there so close to doomsday?"

He motioned, with visible exhaustion, at the mouth of the cave. "Getting _them_ out."

"But you _left _everyone else?"

"Excuse me, Crawly. I'm not inclined to think very kindly of those people after–" He stopped, clamping his lips shut.

Realisation dawned on Crawly, though he hoped he was wrong. "They didn't..." His snaky eyes widened. "They didn't _hurt_ you?"

Aziraphale shook his head. "They didn't get that far."

As much as he tried to hide it, Crawly liked people. Rather a lot. He was secretly fascinated by human creation. Perhaps because, unlike with the stars, he'd had no part in making them, having been removed from heaven by that point. He hadn't seen the working mechanics at their most basic level, the particulars, and thus was utterly fascinated by the end results.

Such funny, mad things they were, humans. Not good, not bad. Just themselves.

This was that one solitary moment in time, however, when the demon Crawly would have throttled any human who came within his line of vision (it was fortunate for Lot and his daughters they did not hear them talking and come out of the cave).

How could they_ do_ something like that to a creature as harmless as Aziraphale?

And why had the forces of Heaven sent _him_ into that? There had to be somebody more prepared to deal with such raw cruelty. Gabriel, or Michael. Yes, Michael would have done fine. Michael was a wanker. Crawly had never gotten on well with her, even back when he was still an angel himself.

If Aziraphale had remained cold and distant, Crawly might have stayed angry. It was Aziraphale's sudden breakage, the fact that the angel suddenly covered his face again and sobbed out, "I don't understand why humans have to be so bad to each other," which brought Crawly back to himself.

What had happened was over now. Being angry with a bunch of dead rapists wouldn't do any good.

Not that demons were _supposed_ to do good.

But who had to _know_?

"Angel." It felt easier than calling him by his name. "Come with me."

* * *

Aziraphale was stunned as Crawly, after dutifully warning him he was about to touch him again and not to freak out, helped him up and began leading him down the mountain. He asked once or twice where the demon was taking him, and he knew he should have been worried, mistrustful, yet couldn't conjure up that righteous feeling of alarm.

Surely he didn't _trust_ Crawly?

Surely not.

Anyway, Crawly wouldn't tell him where they were going. "Don't fuss about it, just come with me."

Some demonic version of a miracle must have been performed. A journey that should have taken them days and days took only an hour. And out of nowhere, they were concealed in a thicket, looking out at a beautiful expanse of greenery just beyond their reach.

A strikingly attractive older woman was playing with a sweet-faced little boy. The sky above them was the most brilliant blue. There was laughter in the air and a sweet tang drifting on the breeze.

The scene did Aziraphale's heart good. "But...I don't understand... Who _are _they?"

"That little boy there, Isaac," Crawly told him, pointing, "is a relative of Lot's. God thinks the world of his father, you know."

"I didn't."

"Oh, well, apparently, they're great friends." He sniffed. "That's the way I heard it."

"That woman is the boy's grandmother?" Aziraphale wanted to know.

"Mother, actually."

"Surely she's a bit old for that." She was lovely, but she _had_ to be pushing ninety.

"Divine blessing."

"Oh, how nice for her. What's her name?"

"Sarai."

"_Quarrelsome_? She doesn't look it in the least."

"Oh," teased Crawly, hands behind his back as he circled Aziraphale causally, "you could always petition the Almighty to change it to something more sentimental, like _Princess_."

"What a perfectly remarkable idea, Crawly! You know, I jolly well _might_." The request wasn't impossible to put in with the higher-ups, and it would be a nice thing to do.

* * *

Crawly grew momentarily thoughtful. He was considering a name-change of his own. Had been for quite some time now, actually.

"Why am I here again?" Aziraphale asked.

Stupid angel. Must he spell _everything _out for him? "They're what you're protecting, angel. People like those. Now, get out there and show yourself to them. They'll take you home with them, show you hospitality."

"You brought me here to restore my faith in humanity."

Crawly darkened. "If you _tell_ anyone–" he hissed.

"I won't, my dear. Wouldn't dream of getting you into trouble. Don't worry."

Crawly, who rarely batted an eye, blinked at him in puzzlement. He'd never called him 'dear' before. _No one_ had ever called Crawly dear before. Not that he didn't like it. No, he'd get used to it.

"Well, come on, then. Let's say hello."

"I can't go _with_ you," Crawly scoffed. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

Aziraphale raised his brow innocently.

"_Demon_," he prompted, waiting for the coin to drop.

"Oh. Quite Right." Aziraphale's cheeks flushed. "I suppose I'll be off, then, visit them on my own, shall I?"

Something crashed into the thicket and was bounding at them with the excitement of a high-energy puppy. It was little Isaac, wandered off from his mother.

Much to the demon's frustration, the boy grabbed onto his legs and started hugging them and giggling. "'ello!"

_Damn kids_. Crawly disentangled the laughing toddler from his calves and pushed the now notably less happy child in Aziraphale's direction. "Go hug _him_. His lot likes you."

The child's mother would be with them soon, and Crawly knew he mustn't be seen. He shifted quickly into a snake.

"_Snakey_!" Isaac cried after him as he slithered away. "Come back, snakey."

* * *

Aziraphale lifted the child up into his arms. "Don't you worry none, Isaac. The snake's all right. He just had things to do. Very busy creatures, snakes."

* * *

No one in the pavilion noticed the snake slithering in the dust, watching them in their domestic bliss from outside with hungry yellow eyes. The moon had not yet risen (only a thin silver crescent tonight, irregardless), and so the serpent went unseen.

The pair who would soon be known as Abraham and Sarah, along with their small son, had washed the feet of the visiting angel and given him the best seat in their tent. He was currently regaling them with some cheery celestial story which put a smile on his face as well as theirs. They'd put out the best food and invited a number of servants to sit down and enjoy themselves with the group. It was all rather like a party.

The snake had to turn away, once he was certain the angel was restored fully to himself again.

There were a great many things he did an angel never could, but a warm welcome in this manner of setting was one thing from which the snake had permanently barred himself when he sauntered downwards after the rest of the fallen.

So, what to do now?

He would go back, he decided, to the open grassland where he'd seen the boy Isaac playing earlier, and look up at the blankets of stars in a near-moonless sky, trying – with feigned disinterest – to remember if any of those were of his making.

Sometimes it was hard to tell – harder still to_ remember_ – all the way down here.

**A/N: Reviews welcome, responses may be delayed. **


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